Give it a year or ten
by layaluro
Summary: They don't like each other, these two. Except maybe they do. Just a little bit.
1. Chapter 1

He's halfway through making tea when Mary and her friends come bustling into the Kitchen.

He's used to it by now. He'd been introduced to the Crawley clan when he was only twelve. It's only recently that he has become a more permanent fixture in their home. He'd made friends with Patrick at Radley – having been thrown together in the first eleven cricket team with the bond of a surname and not much else. They'd done some digging – no relation, which had been a disappointment at the time, but after having met Patrick's father, Matthew found it more of a relief. Patrick had been his first friend at Radley and his best – at least for a while. For a few years they bounce back and forth each other's houses during school holidays, but where Matthew's home in Manchester is a fairly normal affair, Patrick's family had been anything but. Upon boarding the train to York one summer and ending up stood at the gates of Downton and Matthew, who has always been comfortable with his lifestyle, had endured his first experience of being intimidated by the wealth of others.

The visits to and from were frequent when they were young. Robert had taken him enthusiastically in; perhaps because he hadn't ever had a son himself, or perhaps because he knew Matthew was lacking in father figures since the death of his own. He'd gotten along well enough with Cora – the both of them being able to jokingly bond over their comparatively normal backgrounds to the environment of titles and estates they now found themselves immersed in. Sybil, who'd been only six when he'd met her, became like a younger sister, and Edith too.

He got along with all of them.

Apart from Mary.

Mary and Matthew have never seen eye to eye and, after ten years, he strongly suspects they never will. They don't like each other, these two. He doesn't like her, and she certainly doesn't like him. They're opposites for Christ sake. Matthew is friendly, approachable, a true defender of the downtrodden. He prides himself in his work ethic, his resilience, his insistent championing of right from wrong. Mary on the other hand, is prim, proper and popular. She's a modern-day socialite. Always cool and confident – unalterably headstrong, proud, determined.

They agree on nothing. They bicker about everything.

He's a couple of years older than she is, but even when they were younger it had never stopped her from initiating their quarrels. Patrick had thought it hilarious – how stubbornly each of them had grappled for the upper hand and fought tooth and nail for the last word.

But Patrick is gone now. And ever since, Matthew's visits to Downton have become few and far between.

Robert remains steadfastly involved in his life. To all intents and purposes, Matthew becomes akin to his son; Robert takes him out for lunch on his birthday every year, invites him up to Yorkshire in the holidays and when he finishes at Cambridge, offers him a job for a year at his law firm. Which he accepts, gladly.

He lives with them now. Or at least he has done for six months – much to Mary's chagrin. He offered to find his own place in the village, but Robert would not hear of it. Cora had suggested that he take Patrick's old room, in the hopes it would finally spur them to clear it out, but one look at the paled faces of all three of her daughters had been enough to dissuade her from that idea. Even five years later, Patrick is still a sore point for the family. So Matthew sleeps in the bachelor's corridor.

Which, funnily enough, happens to be the topic of conversation he overhears the three girls discussing before they reach the kitchen.

"That's a crying shame," he hears the voice of Lavinia giggle, "You'd have to walk miles to sneak into his bedroom."

"I wouldn't want to sneak into his bedroom, thank you." He hears Mary curtly reply. Her voice as prim as ever. "I have bigger fish to fry."

He rolls his eyes at this. It is a comment so typical of Mary he almost laughs out loud.

"What fish?" Lavinia asks, slyly.

"Haven't you heard?" Anna says tiredly. "Kemal is taking Mary to Amelia's party next week."

The all giggle as they walk into the kitchen, dispersing into it almost immediately.

"Hi Matthew," Anna greets on seeing him there. The pair share a familiar look of mingled amusement and exasperation as Mary habitually ignores him.

"Hey Matthew," Lavinia smiles sweetly.

"Hi Liv, how're you finding Beckett?" Matthew's tone is so casual. He concentrates on making tea as he talks. It's Mary and Anna's turn to share an exasperated look. They both know, all too well, that Lavinia's crush on Matthew has led to her googling the Cambridge reading list for English Literature and slowly working her way through it just to generate a topic of conversation with him. They also both know that English lit is by no means Lavinia's subject. She studied Biology at Edinburgh and is definitely more of a science scholar than one for the arts. Mary, on the other hand, studied history at Oxford, and found Beckett as much of a breeze as Matthew did. Anna knows this well enough. She also knows, however, that the last person to ever admit they have something in common with Matthew, is Mary.

"Fascinating, actually. I was wondering if I could get your thoughts on this particular section..."

Mary stops listening at this point in the conversation. She watches as Matthew sits beside Lavinia at the kitchen table, leaning over beside her to talk her through his thoughts on the opening of _Waiting for Godot_. She gives a disinterested sigh and pours herself and Anna a cup of tea using the water Matthew has just boiled. Mary always feels an uncomfortable mushing in her chest whenever Lavinia monopolises Matthew. It's not because she likes him — because she doesn't. Not at all. It's because — well she doesn't really know why it is, but the fact is, she knows that Lavinia and Matthew are not right for each other. That's the truth of it. She doesn't need to justify it. She's Mary Crawley, she doesn't need to justify anything.

She frowns. That sounds suspiciously like something her granny would say.

But Lavinia and Matthew would never work. They just wouldn't. Matthew needs someone who equals him, who can give him a good argument. He needs to be challenged, not agreed with. He needs someone who knows him. Lavinia, as much as she fancies him, does _not_ know him.

How would she know that Matthew always loses his cuff links in the cushions of the sofa, or that he likes all potatoes except mash? Or that he never has butter in his sandwiches but always does on toast? She doesn't know that he always drinks his coffee black, or that he has a tradition of watching a film with his family every Friday night. She doesn't know that he's terribly allergic to insect stings and needs to go to hospital immediately if he ever gets stung, but she also doesn't know that he'll never admit he needs to go to the doctors and therefore has to be dragged by someone else.

Mary shakes her head again. They're not right for each other. They're not. She just wishes they'd see it, so they'd stop flirting all the bloody time.

It infuriates her.

Anna, smirking to herself, watches Mary's awful attempts at hiding her obvious annoyance. She knows where her irritation is stemming from, even if Mary herself doesn't.

Sensing that Mary has reached her absolute limit of the amount of exchange she can handle between Matthew and Lavinia, Anna decides to swiftly move them on. She takes her cup of tea in hand. "Come on Lavinia, I need yours and Mary's opinions on which dress I should wear out with John."

The exchange is swept up rather neatly as the girls file out of the kitchen, Matthew chuckling at their talk of dresses as he runs his fingers through his messy hair before getting on.

Just as she leaves, Mary tugs his tie rather childishly, saying: "Another triumph in the wardrobe department. You must stand out at work."

Matthew gives her a sickly false smile. "You know, your ladyship, it is possible to not comment on someone's attire when you see them."

Mary smiles radiantly. "I can't ignore fashion catastrophes."

With that she leaves.

Matthew rolls his eyes, going about fixing himself a sandwich.

* * *

The next week starts with Sybil coming back from school in a mood.

"Larry Grey is the world's biggest arse, I tell you!" She huffs, slumping down on the sofa beside Mary. The latter looks up from her magazine.

"Funny," she muses, "I was just thinking the same thing about Edith."

Edith, who sits at their father's desk just across the room, turns around.

"Have you ever heard the expression 'takes one to know one'?" She says bitterly.

Mary, un-amused and uncaring, sighs indulgently. "What's Larry's crime today then?" She asks to change the subject.

Sybil takes a breath. "He's just so arrogant all the time! He cares about nothing and no one but himself, and only opens his mouth to either insult someone else or say something that's so bloody self-righteous it makes me want to throttle him!"

"Now," Edith says, pretending to be thoughtful, "who does that remind me of?" She glares at Mary.

"Someone must have taken a long look in the mirror this morning." Mary replies easily. She tucks some of Sybil's hair behind her ear before standing up. "Only one more year, darling and you can go to University and never have to see him again." She tells her, encouraging.

Sybil smiles thankfully.

"I'm going down to the kitchen; do you want anything?"

It goes unsaid that this invitation is given only to Sybil.

"No thank you," she says, swinging her feet up and turning on the TV. "Are you going to Amelia's later? Everyone has been talking about it."

"I am," Mary says. "I suppose you're not?" She directs at Edith.

Edith scoffs. "If you're there? No thank you. Besides, I have studying to do."

"Which, roughly translated means: 'I wasn't invited'" Mary retorts. She turns and goes before Edith can think of a response. Walking into the kitchen, however, she finds Matthew already there.

"Good afternoon Sea Monster," she greets with a grin, sidling into the room.

"Hello trouble." He looks at her through playful eyes. There's that stupid grin over his face again, the one that quirks the corners of his mouth up and makes his eyebrows rise rather sweetly.

Mary sidles up to him, leaning her hip against the sideboard. "Don't tell me you went to work like this?" She teases.

Matthew looks down at his outfit. He rolls his eyes. "And what do you think is wrong with _this_ one?"

Mary sighs, smirking. "Well first of all, you need to re-do your tie." She purses her lips and raises her hands to his collar. Matthew swallows as her fingers swiftly un-do, then re-do, his tie. He feels the pads of her thumbs over his Adam's apple, her finger tips gliding over his collar and then gently securing the knot, so it lies smart and straight. Her hand straightens it in a stroking motion down his chest. She laughs as she looks back up at him, but he senses a little fondness in it. "You and your floppy hair," she remarks, and all of a sudden Matthew finds Mary's fingers gliding through his fringe, pushing it back out of his eyes so she can see them properly.

"There you go," she states stepping back. As she does, she swipes at the sandwich he's making, taking a bite before he can snatch it back.

"You sneaky little…" his arm darts out to grasp her waist, spinning her around to take his sandwich back but, sensing an opportunity, he pulls her in and tickles her so her knees buckle and she collapses against him with a shocked yelp.

"Serves you right!" Matthew laughs, taking a victory bite of his sandwich as she straightens her clothing. She puffs out a breath, blowing a stray lock of hair from her face.

"Do you know when Papa will be back?"

"His meeting finishes at five. He shouldn't be too long after that."

Mary considers this, nodding as she takes it in.

"Why?" Matthew asks. "Are you planning to slip away before he gets back?"

Mary pulls a face. "As a matter of fact, I planned to have dinner with him before I go out to Anna's."

Matthew cocks his head to the side, one eyebrow shooting up. "And I suppose you're going to watch a film at Anna's – maybe paint each other's nails?" He says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Something like that," she smiles angelically.

He scoffs. "So, this has nothing to do with Amelia Napier's party? Because I heard it was some sort of rave all the way up in York."

"No one calls them 'raves' anymore, grandad." She says.

He rolls his eyes. "Still, it's hardly the picture of sophistication you usually like to paint your father."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she says sweetly. "How did you hear about it anyway?"

"Lavinia mentioned it, but I'm busy this evening." He sips his tea.

"Working again? What an exciting life you do lead." Her eyes glimmer. Her voice drips with sarcasm.

"I've got a date actually."

Well, that shuts her up.

She picks herself up quickly, giving a radiant smirk as she says, "Ooh, you Casanova."

"Well, M'lady," he teases, "I hear from Lavinia that you're being picked up by someone yourself."

Mary can't help but be a little pleased at Matthew's hint of annoyance as he says the words. They're level pegging, it seems.

No surprises there.

"He's coming at eight," she mentions breezily.

Mockingly, he looks her up and down. "You should start getting ready," he remarks.

"I've got four hours," she exclaims, nose wrinkled.

"It might take that long," he says with a smirk.

This earns him a slap on the arm.

* * *

Mary heard the front door bell ring as she slips on her heels, taking no short amount of time admiring herself in the mirror before slowly heading down the grand staircase where she sees Kemal walk briskly past Matthew, sauntering into the corridor and casually admiring the balustrade.

"What's all this?" Robert appears from the library, looking suspiciously at Kemal before turning to Matthew for his answer.

"This is Mr Pamuk," Matthew says. Mary doesn't miss the reserved and slightly cold tone of his usually so warm voice. "He has come to pick up Mary."

"Hmm." Robert gives an unconvinced grunt. He turns to Mary on the stairs. "I thought you were only going to Anna's."

Mary smiles, practically breezy. "Kemal is giving me a lift."

At the sound of her voice, Matthew and Kemal also both turn to watch her descend the stairs. She's very pleased, and not at all surprised, with the reaction she stirs. Kemal's eyes widen, a look that is very much admiring and yet slightly predatory. Matthew's jaw slacks, Adam's apple bobbing as he gulps at the sight of her long, bare legs. He quickly recovers, but Mary has already seen.

"I just need to fetch my jacket and I'll be right with you," she tells Kemal, heading into the library.

Matthew rolls his eyes, knowing perfectly well that Mary has planned this out deliberately so they would have to watch her walk back to the other room.

Despite his accurate assessment of her tactics, it still works. He finds himself staring at her retreating figure, his eyes lingering a little too long on her bottom.

Mary returns with her jacket over her bent arm, just in time to catch Matthew and Kemal locked in what looks like a rather clipped, aggressive conversation. Matthew's eyes issue a warning. Kemal looks somewhat surprised but defiant.

Mary stops to lean up and kiss her father's cheek before joining him at the door.

"Don't wait up, Papa."

"Be careful," he warns, but he says it with fondness.

Matthew's jaw is still set with a stern glare as she walks out. But he flashes an attempt at a smile to her before she turns to leave.

Once the door is shut, Matthew turns again to Robert.

"I had better get ready to go. Will you be alright looking over the case notes without me?"

Robert thumps him on the back, unfazed.

"Of course, of course. Don't worry about me. Go. Have fun."

Matthew grins, and jogs upstairs.

* * *

Upon arrival at Amelia's, the party is already in full swing. The Napier's country home is larger, but their house in York is hardly modest. Even so, people pour in their hoards throughout every section of the house and onto both front and back lawns. Mary excuses herself from Kemal to seek out Anna and Lavinia, both of whom are already on the tipsy side, dancing carelessly with a mob of others in a room of deafening music.

"Mary!" Lavinia calls, pulling her by the hand into the fray and thrusting an overflowing drink into her palm. "You didn't get waylaid by your man then?"

Mary scoffs. "He is not my man." She insists.

"Where's John?" She asks Anna. She shouts, but over the loud music it still takes two times for the words to make it through to Anna's alcohol flooded brain.

"Somewhere about," she calls back. "I think he's found Evelyn. Neither of them are really party animals, so they've decided to stick together."

Evelyn, Amelia's older brother, is another friend of Matthew's from way back. They both knew Patrick at Radley as well, but Evelyn was a late edition, only having known him after he fell off the rails. Mary likes him and knows very well that he's always had a bit of a thing for her. He's had always been very kind — sweet really. She makes up her mind to say hello to him at some point that night.

For the time being, however, she drinks up, starting to dance with Lavinia and Anna. Kemal joins her again after a little while, proffering another drink which goes down just as quickly as the first, albeit with a bit more of a grimace. It's a fair bit stronger.

From then on, her mind is hazy and unreliable. She does find Evelyn, dances with him even, but it is Kemal that monopolises her time with the most success. They dance, drink, dance more. He's not particularly loquacious, but she's not really bothered by it. She's here to enjoy herself, which is exactly what she's doing.

She has her wits about her enough to remember when Anna and Lavinia tell her they're going to head back in John's car, but she declines the offer of a lift back. Or rather, if she recalls correctly, Kemal declines for her.

They dance until her feet are aching from her heels, and she knows well enough that when the pain overrides the alcohol buzz, it's time to head back.

Kemal takes her by the hand and leads her back to his car. He puts music on as he starts the engine, and her mind is swimming too much to question if he's really sober enough to drive. She barely registers when they stop. The music is still going, thrumming through her head with a beat that consumes her enough that she doesn't protest the first kiss, nor the second. It's only when he moves, his hands moving up and body moving in that she gathers enough realisation that she doesn't want this.

She can feel his breath on her neck and it's too far, too much, it's suffocating. She wrenches her arms up to push him away. "Get off!" She commands at last. She is mollified to find her voice as haughty as ever. It makes her seem stronger than she feels.

"Don't be silly." His reply licks over her. She snaps the button of her seat belt, so it flicks over and off her chest, and shifts in her chair so she's further from his reach.

"I'm serious, Kemal. Get off me." She tries to give a stern look but she's not sure her fearful eyes qualify. He certainly doesn't cower under it as people normally do. His hand moves up her leg. His body comes over the gear stick, so he swelters above her. She gulps, the feeling of being trapped in his shadow one she won't forget in a hurry. His hand pushes up further still, under her dress, over her bottom and her reflex lashes out at once. Her leg pushes up, knees him directly in the crotch in the same moment that her hands scramble for the door handle, pulls it and pushes the door so she stumbles unceremoniously out.

"Come on, babe," he says breezily through the opened window. "Get back in the car."

"No." She's seething, panicking, trying to keep from screaming, running and attacking him all at once.

"Mary, come on," he appeals, a sour look on his face now, as if she has begun to bore him.

"Fuck off."

Her throat is still burning as she watches him drive spitefully away.

Her chest shudders from the effort of breathing. She looks around – the garage shop is closed; the car park is empty, she's miles away from any kind of population. There's one dim streetlamp over by the building that flickers intermittently, a rusty old bench backed onto one wall and a hanging sign that creaks in the night wind. In addition to all this, it's bloody freezing.

"Oh shit," she breathes, clasping a hand over her mouth.

She doesn't know what to do. Her phone is in her jacket, which she abandoned in the car in her haste to get out. The likelihood of Kemal being kind spirited enough to tell someone about her predicament is – well, the thought almost makes her laugh out loud. Almost.

She shivers, rubbing her bare arms to generate some heat. It's futile. On a desperate whim, she walks around behind the building. She's not sure what she's hoping for. Her nose wrinkles in disgust at just how dirty the place is – how distasteful. She doesn't have time to dwell on it, because against the back wall, there's an old payphone. It's grimy and she has to grit her teeth in revulsion in order to touch it, but there's odd change left on top of the box and in that moment, she can't believe her luck.

Only now she doesn't know who to call.

She can hardly call Papa, he'll be irate. The notion of calling Edith to bail her out makes her feel physically ill. Sybil isn't old enough to drive. Anna is still on her way home with Lavinia and John.

She groans, dropping her head in her hands.

There's only one person she can call.

And she really, really, doesn't want to call him.

* * *

 _A/N – I'm going to try my damn hardest to get the second chapter out by New Year's Eve. Wish me luck._


	2. Chapter 2

She has never seen Matthew look quite like he does then. He looks windswept and worried as he jogs over to her, his eyes wide and questioning. She'd watched his car pull up — the duct-taped bonnet sticking out like a saw thumb anywhere — but hadn't felt able to get up to meet him. Her legs feel unsteady and her heart is still hammering too jarringly against her ribs to trust herself to move with any semblance of coordination.

"Are you alright?" Is the first thing he asks her, which strikes her as odd given that 'what on Earth are you doing here?' would seem the more apt question in her given circumstance. She nods, but it's not at all convincing and his dubious expression gives away his doubt because she quickly affirms "I am. Really." But she doesn't look alright; the cold has turned her slender arms a deep shade of purple and her lips a chilling blue. He's quick to pull off his jumper and wrap it snugly around her shoulders.

She's shaking so much it scares him.

"All I really want to do is go home and take these shoes off," she says, sighing with onset exhaustion.

They both look down to her feet, tucked in red heels that match her dress.

"You can take them off in the car." He offers her his arm which, to his surprise, she takes.

The warmth of his car and the replacement of Kemal's abrasive musk with the familiar, gentle scent of Matthew's cologne brings Mary a great amount of relief. She leans back in her seat at Matthew climbs into the driver's side, his fingers tapping at the sides of the steering wheel as if he doesn't know what to do with them. They sit for a while, his keys hanging in the ignition as if the world around them had been put on pause. She can feel the numerous unasked questions flooding his brain but all he says is, "are you warm enough?" To which she gives a decided nod.

One by one, she slips off her shoes, abandoning them in the footwell before bringing her feet up onto her seat. She hugs her knees to her chest. There's a silence. A lump has formed in her throat which, when trying to breathe past it, only makes her throat constrict further still. She tries to swallow down the swelling anxiety in her stomach. She gulps, blinks and pushes it away. The attempt is proved useless, because she can still feel the ghost of Kemal's fist closing over her arm, the phantom breath on her neck. The feeling is smothering.

"Mary?" Matthew's voice is distant, like he is speaking from inside a cardboard box. His speech is muffled and fragmented and it takes her a long while to pick out the words "try and take a deep breath." She pauses, trying to do so, resulting in breaths that are long, measured but still shaky. After a few minutes, the buzzing noise in her ears tapers off and the feeling of Matthew's hand rubbing between her shoulder blades becomes gradually more constant.

"What happened?"

He finally asks the question that now presses him. She hadn't given him much information on the phone — only where she was and that she needed picking up. But it had become evident that something was wrong.

She turns to him and finds herself caught by his eyes. The lump in her throat remains, and as tempting as it is to gloss over the exact details of what happened, she finds it's too difficult to form any kind of speech at all let alone a lie. No, she decides to tell the truth — or at least a diluted version of it. She can't bear for him to think of her as weak, so there are details she misses out, but by the time she manages to look back at him he's nodding and she knows he has filled in the gaps himself.

Matthew doesn't quite know how to control the disgust he feels welling up at the back of her throat.

On a whim, he reaches out for her and it's with great relief that she sinks into his embrace.

His touch is warm. She takes a steady breath and finds it easier to do so in his arms. In return, her arms grip around his back and her hold is just as tight as his. She turns into him, closing her eyes with her head tucked under his chin so he can't see the effort she has to go to to make sure she doesn't cry. She mustn't cry — her pride won't stand it. Even so, a few tears slip out unbidden. His embrace, despite how comforting it is, somehow makes the nature of what has happened so much clearer in her head.

She pulls herself together quickly; Mary always does, but they're silent for a little while before he finally, reluctantly, pulls away. He climbs back into his own seat, casting a gentle glance in her direction, pretending not to notice the redness of her eyes. It would make her uncomfortable should he say anything, so instead he starts the engine and pulls out of the car park.

"I must look a fright," she comments half way into their journey.

Matthew rolls his eyes. "You could never be that." He watches from the corner of his eye as she pulls the blind before the passenger seat down and embarks on inspecting herself in the mirror. She meticulously arranges her hair, attempting to recover its previous shape before the wind had turned it.

After a few agitated minutes, he says, "I wish you'd stop fussing, your hair looks perfectly fine."

"I'm not fussing," She rebuts. "Some of us are not fortunate enough to be able to roll out of bed each morning and go about our day without so much as a comb."

He grins. "What can I say? I'm just naturally handsome." He jokes.

She laughs. "Dream on, sea monster."

"How very unfair," he protests with a chuckle. "Can I not be allowed to upgrade to Perseus now?"

"Most certainly not," Mary smirks, resolute.

* * *

The weekend passes without incident— something that cannot often be said, Matthew has learnt, when regarding the Crawley family at Downton Abbey. As far as he's aware, the girls are out throughout the daytime and Robert either works or walks the estate with his dog. Matthew himself spends all of Saturday with Tom up in York and then most of Sunday morning recovering from it. As a result, he barely sees the others, but hears a vague rumour from Evelyn that Sybil has been attending a fair few of the political lectures up in Ripon. He laughs at that, trying to picture the look on Robert's face if he were to discover that one of his daughters was a liberal.

By the next week, however, the house has descended into anarchy again and Matthew discovers that the look on Roberts face on discovering Sybil's newfound interest in politics is perhaps not as comical as he thought.

The mounting tension throughout dinner on Wednesday night eventually comes to a head when Robert brings up the unspoken source of brewing suspense at the table.

As it turns out, what had been described to Matthew as 'political lectures' had, in reality, been closer to group protests.

Still, to say Roberts reaction was over the top would have been an understatement.

"I gather there was quite a brouhaha."

Sybil shrugs. "You know what these things can be like—"

"I do!" Robert suddenly begins to shout. The boom of his voice makes Edith visibly flinch. "Which is why I am astonished you did not feel it necessary to ask my permission to attend!"

Sybil gives an exasperated sigh. Robert is furious. Matthew wonders if it wouldn't be best if he left — it feels a little like he's intruding on a family argument.

"Mama gave her permission. She thinks it good to encourage my interest—" Sybil is comparatively calm, but Robert still feels the need to interrupt.

"Your Mama is in America!" He shouts. "And while she is, you will listen to me when I forbid you to continue to go to these ... riots!"

"They're hardly riots, Papa," Mary tries to restore the peace. She loves her father and doesn't like to see him targeted when he's clearly under the stress from both work and Cora's trip to America, but she has to be the diplomat now and Sybil hasn't done anything wrong. "Sybil is entitled to her own opinions."

Robert is not easily dissuaded from his argument however and the shouting goes on and on until Edith takes Sybil's side and Mary has joined the shouting by simply trying to stop the family dividing itself in two.

The fight is ended by Sybil's defiant announcement that she's going upstairs to call Cora. Edith goes with her, leaving only Matthew and Mary left to negotiate Robert's temper.

They both know it's a lost cause. Instead of trying to fix the fracture, Mary simply gives her father a poignant look.

"Goodnight Papa," She says, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek before she heads upstairs. "Sybil is Sybil," she says, "you won't get your way by fighting her, she's too strong minded. She's going to rebel, it's her nature, just let her work things out for herself."

As soon as she's gone, Robert turns to Matthew. He heaves a great sigh, scrubbing his face with his hands.

"Each daughter of mine seems intent on challenging me."

"Would you have it any other way though?" Matthew asks.

Robert smiles wearily. "No," he says, chuckling. "No I suppose I wouldn't."

Tactically, Matthew changes the subject.

He goes up to bed not long after the others but on his way back from the bathroom later, tired and only half-dressed, he's not looking where he's going so near bumps into Mary as she comes down the corridor. He jumps, and almost does a double take. He's never seen her when she's not dressed to the nines. This is Mary, who's attire is always suited to an unexpected photoshoot, except now she's wearing checked pyjama trousers and a large old grey hoodie that he's surprised to see her wearing on any occasion – largely because it's his. The one he'd wrapped around her that night up in York. Her look is as stern as ever but also weary. He can tell she's not in the mood for another of their spats, so he offers a weak obliging smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth. She responds with an almost imperceptible nod. But, for them, this is practically akin to the intimacy of a hug. They part ways after that. Matthew follows down the corridor to his bedroom, Mary the opposite direction to hers. Not a word passes between them, but it's the most honest they've been with each other since the night he'd come to pick her up.

* * *

The next time he speaks to her properly is on another evening. He's stolen himself away in the small library, finishing off some work at Robert's old writing desk. A screen blocks him from view of the remainder of the room – so tucked away that neither Mary nor Edith notice him when they enter, and by the time they begin to start ripping into each other — the way these two always do — it's far too late for him to excuse himself. Instead he listens. Reluctantly, but he does it all the same.

He hates it. Because, as much as he doesn't get along with Mary in any traditional manner, he likes the family very much. Edith is his friend. Sybil is like his younger sister. Robert and Cora had taken him under their wing. But when left too each other's company, Mary and Edith fight like wild cats. They bite and claw and rip into the other one in all but actual violence, until finally one leaves with the upper hand.

Mary is normally the crueller one — or the more petty, let's say — because Matthew knows really they're just as bad as each other. Mary attacks with venom in little bites, niggling. Edith's strategy is the reverse. She builds up her losses, stores those little pieces of malice only to unleash them all at once and leave Mary to drown in the repercussions. They're both as bad as each other in their own way.

But tonight is Edith's turn to win.

And when she leaves, turning and sweeping back coolly into the drawing room, he watches the door close behind her and realises it's only him and Mary now. It's only when he sees her drop her head in her hands that he makes a move to intervene.

"Mary?"

"I suppose you've been eavesdropping on this entire conversation?" She glares at him, her voice ferocious.

"Conversation?" He echoes. "You were ripping each other in two!"

"Whatever we were doing, it is none of your business," she snaps. "You had no right to listen in!"

He doesn't argue. Although he's angry, he is not blind enough to ignore the fact that she is right. His conscience had been saying the same thing for the last twenty minutes.

"I'm sorry. I was trying to get some air and then you two came in — I didn't know how to leave without announcing myself and then it was too late. I didn't intend to listen in, but I did so I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter," She resigns. "I suppose you already knew anyway."

He says nothing. They both recall that night perfectly well.

"So Pamuk has been spreading these filthy tales around?" Matthew spits. There's a bitter taste in his mouth. "And Edith believes them?"

Mary shrugs. "I don't know. She might. Equally, she could just be going along to humiliate me. Either way she's thrilled."

Matthew sits beside her, laying a hand over her back. "What can I do?" He asks.

"Haven't you tired of bailing me out of my own misdoing?"

"Not nearly," He jokes, wrapping his arm around her and drawing her against him. She rests her head on his shoulder for a beat, and then remembers this is not how they are together and sits up.

Matthew slides his arm away.

"I just hope to god Papa doesn't find out," she sighs. "I've already had to invent a story to explain my missing phone."

"He hasn't given it back?" He doesn't know why he says this – he'd been in Pamuk's company for less than five minutes and from that short time can pretty well assess that he is not the type.

Mary gives him a look. "No. I'll have to get it back at some point I suppose…"

"You mustn't go alone," he's quick to object.

"I'm not sure I'll go at all," she says honestly. "To tell the truth I don't think I could stand to be in his company."

"Perfectly understandable." He reasons.

"Matthew… that night…" she starts, then thinks better of it and stops.

There's a silence.

She's reminded of another train of thought and plays it off as if that was what she had meant to say in the first place. "Apparently, Edith heard us coming in. She thought you were… _him_. I think that's why she believes the rumours."

This sinks in for a while. There's an awkwardness that settles between them, so he pushes it away with a joking tone, waggling his eyebrows as he speaks.

"And there I was thinking I did a good job of sneaking you in."

His silly smirk earns him a swat to the shoulder.

"Like you sneak in all the other women?" She teases. Her eyes have that same playful glint in them that they always seem to. But just now, he's glad of it.

"No chance of that, I'm afraid," he deadpans with flick of his eyebrows.

"Well that's not what I've heard," she muses, "Evelyn tells me you were asked out twice in the same bar when you were out with Tom two weeks ago. Not to mention the date you had on the night of Amelia's party, so forgive me if I don't believe you."

Matthew says nothing.

"How did it go, by the way?" She doesn't know why she asks, because it's the last thing she wants to know.

For some reason, the vision of Matthew on a date makes her insides twist uncomfortably.

"Unfortunately," he deadpans, "announcing you need to pick up another woman from a party in the middle of a date doesn't exactly get you brownie points."

He doesn't look at her as he speaks, and when he does his eyes hold nothing but warmth, but the guilt churns in her stomach as though she is being accused.

His words repeat over in her mind.

"Oh, Matthew... you didn't..." she breathes. "Why on Earth..."

"What was I supposed to do, leave you there?" He speaks as though the prospect disgusts him.

"Well..." she fumbles for an answer. "You could have finished the date and then come to get me ... or said no..."

"You sounded upset; I was worried!" he exclaims. "I couldn't... I wasn't just going to leave you to freeze!"

"But you blew off a date for me? Oh, Matthew..."

"It doesn't matter." He dismisses it as though it's nothing.

"It matters to me." She insists. "Date for a date — you didn't get one with this girl, so I'll get you another one."

"Mary — it really doesn't—" But his protest falls on deaf ears.

"No buts. You missed out on a date for me, so I'll set you up with the best date you've ever had."

He wishes he could feel more enthusiastic about the prospect.

A yawn takes her by surprise and she decides it's about time she heads up to bed.

"If papa asks, could you tell him I've gone to bed? I don't think I can face the rest of this evening."

"Of course." He nods. "Mary?"

She turns at the door.

"Edith is wrong. You're worth infinitely more than him. You don't deserve it."

Quite out of the blue, she comes back over and kisses him on the cheek before she leaves.

Matthew has never felt more like a pathetic love-sick schoolboy than in that moment.

* * *

A/N - well, so much for new years (I'm very sorry) but better late than never eh? (sorry again). Hope it's not too shabby.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Oh dear it's been a while… sorry…

* * *

This is useless.

Useless.

She scrolls through her contacts again. And again, annoyed to find that no divine inspiration hits her.

How hard can it be to find a date for Matthew?

She's beginning to wish she'd set more realistic expectations with her promise. The best date he's ever had? Where on earth was she supposed to find a woman of that calibre?

And granted, Matthew is an annoying prig with funny hair and, frankly, terrible dress sense – but he's sweet really. He's genuine and selfless and, quite infuriatingly, brimming with kindness.

Her thumb pauses over Lavinia's contact.

Lavinia is nice. She's good looking and clever, she's certainly able to fight her own corner even if she can be a little whimsical at times. Begrudgingly, Mary can sort of see Lavinia and Matthew working well together. The thought sits uncomfortably in her throat and swells until it forms a lump that makes her ache.

And then she remembers the justification that always comes to mind when Mary is forced to entertain the notion of Matthew and Lavinia in a potential relationship.

That Mary can reel of her list of Matthew-isms, every single one of which she's sure Lavinia wouldn't have the first inkling about.

Matthew always forgets to take the coins out of his pockets before he puts his trousers in the wash. Matthew secretly hates it when anything other than Turkey is served for Christmas dinner. Matthew is really, _really_ , good at cricket, but is too modest to admit it. Matthew needs someone else to tie his tie when he's nervous.

No, Mary decides. Lavinia would be completely wrong for Matthew. Matthew needs someone to challenge him, not swoon over him. He needs someone to tease and bicker with, that is able to match his passion and complete bull-headed stubbornness. Someone that appreciates how ridiculously intelligent he is, someone that loves him for his beautiful blue eyes and silly, floppy hair.

* * *

"Matthew?"

He turns around from the counter with his eyebrows raised. He knows that tone.

"And trouble has come for me again," he muses, smirking. "What do you want?"

Mary looks very demure, seating herself delicately opposite Matthew at the breakfast bar and eyeing the cake mix he was currently stirring. "Who says I want anything?"

But she's not fooling anyone, least of all Matthew.

"That tone," he half answers – half accuses. "Come on, butter me up." He grins widely, clearly enjoying the feeling of possessing the upper hand.

Mary rolls her eyes. "You're rotten," she groans. Then, after a minute, "Can I borrow your car?"

Matthew pretends to ponder this for a moment. "As persuasive as that argument was, I'm going to have to say no."

"Spoilsport," she huffs.

He rolls his eyes. "You haven't got a licence and you're not ensured. It would be a bad idea." He says seriously. Then, "why do you want it anyway? Can't you ask _daddy's chauffeur_ to drive you?" His over-the-top teasing posh accent earns him a handful of flour to the face.

It puffs out into a white cloud that settles over his face and t-shirt.

She looks at him, grinning so widely she becomes unable to stifle her laughter. Her shoulders shake and body beds double with the force of her giggles.

In penance, Matthew reaches his fingers into the bowl of cake mix and flicks it at Mary. It splatters across her face, stifling her smirk almost at once.

Matthew begins to chuckle as Mary's jaw drops in indignation.

Slowly, she reaches up with one, delicate, hand to wipe the mess from her face and then reaches forward to smear it across his nose.

Another, much bigger, handful of flour is tossed, this time covering Mary's face and carefully groomed and styled hair.

Matthew promptly collapses into peals of laughter and bolts across the room as she chases him in mock outrage.

"I'm going to get you for that!" she calls, sprinting upstairs after him, through the main hall and across to the living room. She catches him then, pouncing on his back and smearing the flour all over him as they giggle together, collapsing onto the sofa and rolling about like animals until she has him pinned beneath her, looking just as ghostly and powdered as she does.

"Let me borrow your car?" She tries again.

"It's still a no." he shakes his head, still grinning.

Aware that Mary will make no move to let him up, he frees one his wrists from her grip and jabs her side playfully. Her other hand releases him instinctively and he tickles her mercilessly until they've reversed their positions, panting with laughter as Matthew climbs off her and offers a hand up. She bats it away and climbs up herself.

He rolled his eyes. How typically _Mary_ of her.

"Why not?"

"Because it would be illegal."

"Ugh, Matthew you're such a square."

"You're 21, don't you think it's about time you learnt to drive?"

Mary cocks her head to the side, giving him a look. "You're 23, don't you think its time you bought a car that's bonnet isn't stuck on with duct-tape?"

He just rolls his eyes, beginning to brush some of the flour off him as he heads back down to the kitchen. Mary follows, watching rather too wistfully as he runs his fingers through his hair to displace some of the flour.

"Besides, I have had lessons, I just haven't taken the test yet. And you know Papa won't let me borrow his precious AC or buy me a car until I've got my licence."

He sighs. "If I drive you to wherever it is you want to go today, you have to help me with the cakes for Sybil's charity sale and let me pick the film on Friday night."

Friday night film night has become an unspoken tradition of sorts between them – since he'd had a particularly miserable day at work and she'd opted to forgo her night out in an attempt to cheer him up. Mary rationalises this tradition by simply repeating to herself the mantra of 'its not a date' whenever their hands brush reaching for the popcorn, or her head ends up on his shoulder when she inevitably falls asleep. She tries to ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment this mantra leaves at the pit of her stomach.

"You're getting two perks," she says. "What my second reward?"

He thinks about this for a second, finally sighing: "And I'll lend you my car for your driving test."

Mary straightens her posture and proffers her hand for him to shake. "Deal."

"Deal," he agrees, chuckling a little at her formality.

"So where is it I'm taking you?"

"Dress shopping." She answers.

He looks at her with mingled exasperation and amusement.

"You know Robert has let me take work back from the office on the condition that I look over case notes and help prepare for next week while I'm here, not so I can galivant around town with you, looking for the outfit for your next ball."

"Oh Matthew, you're too studious for your own good, I bet you've already done the work you need to do, you just want to go overboard as ever." She looks at him, her eyes daring him to challenge her. His silence confirms her accusation and she sighs contented in her triumph. "Besides," she adds, "You know what all work and no play did for Jack."

"You think I'm a dull boy anyway," Matthew grumbles, but his eyes hold a lightness to them. It makes her heart beat in her throat for a second.

"Then prove me wrong."

She swans out the door.

Matthew raises an eyebrow and follows suit.

* * *

After dinner she retires to the small library, finding Matthew idly reading on one of the sofas by the fireside.

He looks up at her as she enters, shutting the door to behind her, and grins, placing his book down in his lap.

"Am I ever going to get that jumper back?" he teases, knowing full well what the answer will be.

"Not a chance, tentacles."

"Tentacles!" He echoes, feigning a hurt expression.

She holds her arms out to the sides in demonstration and, sure enough, the sleeves of his hoodie hand so far over her hands it makes her look as though she's drowning in fabric.

"Roll up your sleeves!" He commands, exasperated. He stands and pulls her towards him, letting her palms settle against his chest. "You numpty," he adds, working the cuffs up and over her wrists. His thumbs stroke the backs of her hands as he does so, his nimble fingers tender as they brush against the insides of her wrists.

"There," he says. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

She tilts her head up to look at him, so close they almost come nose to nose with the angle. Her hands remained braced against his chest.

The tension could be cut with a knife.

He moves first, patting her hands and opting to flop down onto the sofa, stretching out and closing his eyes.

She takes a seat at the opposite end, letting her eyes cast gently over him.

The waistband of his underwear is visible just above his belt where his shirt has ridden up. Her eyes are drawn to the thickening blonde hair above it, and she wonders what it would feel like in her fingers.

"Earth to Mary?"

She snaps her head up to look at him.

"You seem distracted." He comments with a wry smirk. "Is everything alright?"

"fine." She says as breezily as she can manage. Her ears still feel rather hot. "Oh. I almost forgot." She announces quite suddenly. "I promised you a date."

"Mary…"

"I've emailed you your train ticket for Saturday. You need to be at Trafalgar Square at seven PM."

He looks at her as though she's gone mad.

"Mary, I know you're not exactly one for moderation but I must tell you that most people don't have to travel by train when they go on a date."

She gives a long sigh. "As always, my dear sea monster, you miss the point."

"Do I now?" he asks. "Would you care to enlighten me?"

She rolls her eyes. "I wonder if you'll ever learn the meaning of a surprise."

He rubs the back of his neck nervously with one hand. He's gotten so used to living in the bubble of Downton that he's almost forgotten reality. The reality where he and Mary will no longer be able to bicker in the kitchen or duel at the dinner table. One where they won't have lazy Friday nights in front of the TV, always ending in Mary snoozing on his shoulder. One where she'll end up dating the heir to some estate and he'll have to settle for someone that simply won't be Mary Crawley.

Her setting him up on a date only reminds him more cruelly that this reality exists.

"I don't usually go on dates with people I've never met…"

"Oh, you've met her," she says cryptically.

"Mary… I really don't think this is a good idea."

"Matthew, do you trust me?"

He raises his eyebrows. "You know, I'm not sure I do…"

She gives him a look.

"OK. I suppose I do trust you, yes."

"Then relax. Be a sport. You'll have a great time, just loosen up and stop worrying about it."

He sighs, resigned to doing as she says just this once.


End file.
